


By Breath and Bone

by After_Baker_Street



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Cutting, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Smut, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M, Original Character(s), Personal history of John Watson, Personal history of Sherlock, Self Harm, army John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-12 07:10:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/After_Baker_Street/pseuds/After_Baker_Street
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in an alternate universe where some have powers that might seem very much like magic.</p><p>Eventual Johnlock, smut.</p><p>No warnings apply for this chapter but will for later chapters.</p><p>Dedicated to The Ruffled Muffin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Binding

The tiny, dark-haired boy turns his face away from the sun. The day is bright, and surprisingly clear. He glares angrily across the lush green lawn to the younger boy racing happily towards him. Sherlock was confused and flattered by his attentions, but now his little shadow is starting to annoy him.

*

Sherlock is proud. He has discovered what will entertain the gardener’s nephew. First it was Mycroft’s dappled pony, which endured their poking and prodding for some time before they grew bored. Sherlock had already identified the boy as emotionally liable, which he supposes is normal for children whose parents both die unexpectedly. He has never known anyone who has died, so once he discovers this fact, he decides to study the boy carefully.

Because Sherlock is exceptionally clever, he recognizes it in others.

*

In Jim’s small hand is the body of a half-grown magpie. Sherlock stares, refusing to accept the reality that once was a twittering, feathered, live bird. It was _alive._

“What have you _done?”_ he screams at the smaller boy, voice reaching high.

“I didn’t...it was an accident!” the gardener’s nephew insists, his face drawing tight with concern, dark eyes flashing.

Something cold grows in Sherlock’s chest when he looks down at the other boy, searching his trembling face for clues.

“You did it on purpose. You killed it.” He says evenly.

“N-no. I just wanted to see...”

A blinding white rage fills Sherlock and he remembers the words he read just last night, in a book that had been hidden on a high shelf in the library. He climbed those shelves carefully, found the book his father had secreted away. Those beautiful, terrible words were caught in his memory, begging to be spoken.

“I bind you.” he murmured.

Jim looked up, curiosity and fear warring on his face.

“I BIND YOU.” Sherlock said firmly, somewhere between a shout and a proclamation. “For what you have done here, for the innocent thing you have murdered, I bind you to darkness.” Jim’s eyes go wide, and he drops the nearly weightless body of the bird to the ground. Fear sweeps through him and he puts up a hand to stop Sherlock’s words from reaching him somehow.

“I bind you, James Moriarty, I bind you to loneliness, and to fear. I curse you and I bind you.”

The skies begin to grow dark and Sherlock stands tall and slim, a strange energy coursing through him.

“I curse you to always look for love, and never find it. I curse you to wickedness, may you find whatever of it you always wished.”

A crack of thunder, only moments ago the sun shone bright. Struck with a near-hysterical fear, the Holmes’ nanny rushes from her tea at the kitchen table to search the grounds for young Sherlock and his little friend.

Jim has turned to tears, sobs ripping themselves from him. In a strange sympathy, Sherlock begins to cry, and it only makes him more angry. Tears slipping from bright blue eyes, he continues on. The temperature around the house drops dramatically.

“I BIND YOU, JIM MORIARTY, to all the hurt you should know, to find every pain you deserve.” He is forgetting the words in that crumbling book, and begins to substitute his own.

The nanny races across the lawn, towards the two screaming boys. Jim is quickly becoming incoherent, his little body wracked with sobs between long, plaintive wails. The gardener comes around the hedge, searching for the boys. Hail begins to fall, even Sherlock starts to quail.

“To death,” his voice dropping low, he whispers. “I bind you to death, may it follow you evermore. I bind you to nightmares...”

The nanny reaches them, desperate to break the bond between the two staring children, to staunch the flow of words from Sherlock’s mouth. Later, she will say that she’d seen incredible magic done that day, but everyone knows there’s no such thing as magic.

The gardener acts quickly, pulling frantic young Jim towards him. Sherlock looks up to the sky as rain splutters down. Aurelia, Sherlock’s pale, aristocratic mother appears in the doorway, her voice cutting across the lawn.

“Sherlock? What’s happened?”

At the same time, the gardener picks up James and, shaking him, demands “What did he say, boy? What has he done?”

The Irish boy’s cries had reached a hysterical pitch, he was sobbing incoherently as the gardener shouted. The nanny stood, frozen, one arm flung over her head for protection against the battering hail and rain.

Aurelia walks across the lawn, her face set and outwardly calm. The angry gardener turns his attentions to Sherlock, who is standing stock still, small hands in white-knuckled fists.

Under his breath he continues, “I bind you, by breath and bone, by skin and stone.” Hearing this, the gardener lunges toward Sherlock.

Aurelia reaches Sherlock, puts her arm across him protectively. She gives a light little laugh. It has a false, theatrical quality and serves to defuse the situation. The furious gardener draws away with little Jim in his arms.

“Oh, the boys are being awfully silly.” Aurelia practically trills.

“What!?” the gardener shouts, “I heard him, it was a _binding.”_

“Of course you didn’t,” Aurelia “there’s absolutely no such thing, and if there was, it’d be illegal.” She narrows her eyes. The nanny chimes in “He ain’t even favoured, never showed the first sign of it.”

Aurelia drops her arm, steps in front of Sherlock, towards the man who is now shifting uncomfortably. He carries the sobbing boy away, leaving the two women standing around pale-eyed boy, lashed with rain.

His mother takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him inside. And begins to teach him what it means to be favoured by dark elements.

*

Many miles away, a blond boy just sort of wanders away from a rugby scrum. He’s distracted by a group of children skirting the shadows of the trees lining the schoolyard. They’re bent down, examining something. His curiosity draws him into the trees.

The boys and girls are surrounding something small, some on their hands and knees, staring down. John steps nimbly through the growing crowd.

A baby squirrel has fallen from the branches high above their heads. It is obviously hurt, and John can just make out minute vocalizations, like chirrups. None of the children touch it, but it is clear they want to. As he leans over the struggling animal, John is struck by a sudden rush of worry. The tiny thing is terrified, and the crowd of impatient children likely to hurt it, either by accident or design. One high voice pitches out of the crowd as he reaches for the scrap of fur.

“John! What are you doing?” It’s his sister, Harriet.

“It’s alright, Harry.” He says, picking it up carefully. The murmur of voices reaches for him, but he doesn’t take his eyes from the squirrel.

Black, darting eyes seem to stare up at him. It is a miracle, this perfect living thing, resting in the palm of his hand. And as he studies the clever face and heaving sides, he realizes it is dying. He wants to protect it from the eyes of the crowd, the hands reaching forward to touch it. So he covers the body with his other hand.

The warmth of the little squirrel seems to suffuse through him, winding up his arm. In a flash, he sees far more than he thought he could, into the broken body. He wants to cry, he wants to shout at the unfairness of it all. This perfect little animal dying in his hands tears at his heart. And he wishes, more than anything he’s ever wanted, that he could help it somehow.

He closes his eyes, fights the darkness whipping through the now-still squirrel and into his hand. It’s like smoke, radiating outwards, but also into him. Can no one else see? Can none of the other children feel the utter wrongness of it? The burn of hope starts to push back against that strange darkness, and he begins to feel the animal move in his hands. He sees (without seeing) the bones begin to knit themselves again. The black feeling begins to recede and to counter it, something good and green pours through him into the furry form.

John begins to feel strange, dizzy. He opens his eyes. Half of the group has disbursed, running for a teacher. The other half is staring, frozen. Harry catches his eye first, her voice unsteady, her dark blue eyes, usually so familiar to him, seem strange and afraid.

“John,” she coaxes him, “open your hand.”

So he does, and the squirrel scrambles to its tiny feet. It tickles. So John walks into the shadows beneath the trees and releases it onto the trunk. In a flash, it scampers away, apparently unhurt.

One of the children begins to cry.

 

Works related to this one:  
[As an adult, John is still friends with squirrels](http://afterbakerstreet.tumblr.com/post/52832668506/idunnothingsilike-boldlygoes-commissioned), By [boldlygoes](http://boldlygoes.tumblr.com/)


	2. The Cost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief glance at the lives of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes as their skills develop.

There are consequences, of course. John had never shown any sign of skill beyond what one might expect from a very clever boy of his age. The story of how he healed the injured squirrel spread through the school in minutes, though Harry had cried and begged the other children not to tell. Early testing had shown no indication of favour, certainly no ability in healing, which was in terribly high demand. It seemed John Watson was the exception, that he developed considerable skills much later than might be expected.

He’s transferred almost immediately to boarding school for favoured children. They say it’s a privilege, and his parents should be proud. He only feels worried about leaving his little sister behind now that their father has started drinking during the day. He promises to write, to call, leaves his mum wringing her hands as he boards the train alone.

Things aren’t easy for him, he’s not like the others. His talent seems impossible to control at first. He spends hours learning, studying all hours of the day and night to catch up to the other children.

His second year at school, he falls for a girl so heavily favoured by Water that some say she can make rain fall from a clear blue sky. She sits next to him during their lunch break. To make him laugh, she draws all the liquid in his glass to one side until it tips just enough to balance, rock back and forth along its edge. He’s breathless, impressed with her talents. She passes him notes in class.

A year later, they kiss for the first time in her element, washed with pouring rain, behind the shed at the edge of the football field. He is thirteen years old. Her name is Mary Morstan and her dark hair shines in the grey, overcast light.

She whispers her secrets, tells him she has flashes of Sight. Even children know that isn’t the sort of thing you speak aloud. 

Three weeks later, she doesn’t show up for class. He knows enough not to ask, but he overhears. Someone reported her, they read her diary. Later, the teachers say she’s been sent home. John writes and writes but she never responds.

He throws himself into his studies, spends his breaks at school finishing skill tests, writing papers. And practicing. Mostly practicing, learning to draw out and balance his favours. Like many healers, he is naturally favoured strongly by Earth. Through dint of hard work, he becomes one of the most able in his class. He learns to sense subtle vibrations, with effort he can detect someone walking up the stairs on the other side of the building. His skills with Water are not far behind. In their few weeks together, Mary showed John more about water than he’d ever learn in school. It became nearly second nature to manipulate liquids. He often used it as the conduit for his healing, a strange surprise to his teachers. John had always had the favour of Fire, but he repressed it for so long, cooled and ran it over with Water. Fire was dangerous. The favour of fire made his anger and fear dance along his mind until he was overwhelmed. He studied hard to learn to control it, to turn it into a weapon he could let loose when he needed, and contain it easily.

Is is the favour of Sky that he never learns as well. Beneath the boundless blue, he feels small, all his skills feel weak. But John is made for action, and made for Earth, so he balances his fear of the infinite Sky. With time, he learns the rudiments of skill with Sky because he refuses to be anything less than proficient.

*

The breadth of Sherlock’s skill is kept concealed as long as possible. His parents keep him home with tutors and, of course, their own instruction. His talents are unpredictable, at times dangerously explosive. He’s compared endlessly with his older brother, the consummate student and politician, already in his late teens. Mycroft will go far, they all say; Sherlock, they barely speak of at all.

*

John learns what it means to be alone when he is sixteen. The sense that everyone around him has someone settles hard against his struggling heart. He returns home for summer holidays and sees exactly what he expected; his family has continued its inevitable downward spiral. His mother is already dying, though none of them know it. She simply grows smaller and frailer every time he sees her. She never considers chemotherapy.

Harry has grown dark, but lights up around John. She shows him her feeble and newly discovered skills with Fire. Though it is against the rules, he teaches her many lessons on developing and managing her favour. He smells liquor on her breath when he embraces her one afternoon (physical affection being regarded as suspect, at the very best, in the Watson household). He takes a long walk alone, trying to think of how to talk it over with her. When he returns, Harry and his father are having some sort of row. He dashes into the small cottage, hearing Harry’s screaming voice from the street. They fall silent when John walks in. Stephen Watson is a dark brute of a man, nothing like his small, fair son. John pulls Harry up from where she’s cowering beneath the desk, a bruise already blooming on her face.

Still, the impact is unexpected. John crumples beneath his father’s blow. Instead of staying down, which is accepted as the safest route, he immediately rights himself. Stands defiant.

“That’s the last time you’ll ever hit anyone in this family.” he says as firmly as he can manage, voice breaking.

The voice of his father, a drunken snarl. “Who’s going to stop me, little Johnny with the magic powers?”

“Yes.” John opens the door in his mind, but it’s more like breathing life into a spark. It was always there, waiting. And hungry. He’s not even sure what his intention is, but warmth begins to billow into the small, cool room, as though the door to the oven has been left open. The heat creates a breath of burning wind, scatters the rubbish and dust in the room. In a moment, there’s a strange vortex appearing in one corner, only feet from where they stand. John’s father does not move. Another flash of heat when John hears the tiny sound of his sister’s feet in the hall.

Their hair and clothes begin to lift as another whirlwind appears in the small space. Dry, burning wind whips against them.

“Damn you.” Stephen Watson yells, low and afraid. And as he lifts his hand to strike John again, John sees him for what he is: afraid, and small. And without the talent that will take John far from this life. And regret and fury meld to one, and John worries that he may incinerate himself in his own anger. The wave of heat that passes over them brings a deeper flush to his father’s already engorged, red face. The candle on the coffee table begins to melt. It catches Stephen’s eye as it slides to one side, then topples in a splash of melted wax.

Harriet takes a step into the blazing room. And like a fever breaking, John lets go of Fire, calls on Water to slake the wild burning tearing at his heart.

Stephen Watson walks outside, goes down the pub without a word. It is the last time he would threaten one of his own. After, he is a broken man, his hatred turns inward and he fades into greyness, into the blank nothingness all angry old men become.

*

The years wear hard on John Watson. He is cut off, drifting aimlessly, completing university only because no other alternative presents itself. His mother dies, three months later he checks Harry into rehab for the first time. He studies as hard as he ever did, keeping his mind occupied with schoolwork because if he doesn’t, one moment of freedom will send his mind spinning and he will realize how lonely he is and the thought will leave him aching for days. His skills at healing impress even his most difficult professors, but his natural talent for the traditional sciences shine and he’s consistently at the top of his class.

Medicine seems like a natural choice. Skilled healers often go into the caring professions, nursing or massage. Few have the patience to temper their talent so thoroughly through all those years of schooling, but John is nothing if not patient. Medical school is as intense as he can imagine, and his internship leaves him so tired he falls asleep on the bus back to his tiny flat. But John Watson thrives under the stress, becomes capable in a world he can manage. And, of course, it means something that he can fix things, can make those who hurt right again. He holds on to that fact, because he cannot do that for himself.

*

A slim teenager slips over the gate of an exclusive school in the countryside. It is not the first time Sherlock has left the grounds, but he thinks it may be the last. Yes, staying at school would make his parents happier, but over time, he has come to realize that their satisfaction with him often comes at a terrific cost. And the cost of remaining at school is too great. It’s not that he is still hurt by his classmates, but that now, he has learned to fight back. And because he is exceptionally clever, Sherlock recognizes that the world doesn’t react well when someone like him pushes back.

Besides, he no longer wishes to keep secrets, and the secrets he has to keep to remain at school have become tiresome.

The night is cool, turning crisp, but Sherlock does not feel cold. He never does. He can only think of getting to London, of starting over. Of how things will be so much easier there.


	3. The Sight

John discovers, to his surprise, that people like him. He makes friends. Joins a rugby team. Has someone to call when he wants to go out for a pint, or to meet girls. He hides his skills away. Although his skill is certainly at their level, and perhaps far beyond it, he doesn’t feel like he has much in common with the elite circles of the highly favoured he sometimes brushes elbows with at the hospital, or rarely, in social situations. His friends are more like him, he thinks. But he hides his skills anyway, for fear of alienating them.

 _Things are easier with friends,_ he tells himself as he struggles to fall asleep, loneliness threatening to smother him.

*

In a part of London John Watson has never seen, Sherlock turns his collar up to the cold and damp. He’s just managed to get himself kicked out again. He’s frustrated with himself, couldn’t keep his mouth shut when he knew he was on the edge. Whilst thinking this, he also smiles to himself, feels more than a bit smug. It was worth it, to see the looks on their faces when he finally sorted out who was skimming. There might have been better ways to handle it, but subtlety is among his many talents.

Because Sherlock is exceptionally clever, he knows he’ll be able to find somewhere else to stay. Soon, he disappears into the fading amber twilight, lost in a long, dove grey coat.

*

John has his first glimpse of Sight near the end of a shift at A&E. He’s exhausted, it’s nearly dawn. He has worked through the night. He’s sitting down, reviewing the chart for what he hopes is his last patient of the shift. She’s sixteen and was brought in by her parents with an ankle they were afraid was broken. He’s barely given her much of a glance, just a tad of warm bedside manner. She’s already had a lecture from the nurse about mucking about outside when it’s dark, and it looks like her parents are likely to give her another. They seem nice enough, standing nearby, practically perched on the edge of her bed.

With sudden, terrible clarity, John sees blood. And feels a rush of relief so palpable he could sigh, right there in front of his patient and her parents. The blood he sees clears, and he the after-image of multiple injuries, scars and scabs criss-crossing each other on a canvas of pale skin.

He purses his lips tight to stop himself from speaking. Pretends to study the x-ray. Gives himself a moment, washed by emotions that aren’t his: anger, disgust, blinding fear and terrible sadness.

And he _knows._ He _Sees._

He thinks he might sound a little unsteady when he asks the parents to leave for a moment. He draws the curtain around, takes a deep breath and sits beside his patient again. Lorelai, her chart reads.

“Do they call you Lori?” he asks, careful to keep his tone light.

Her dark eyes dart away from his, but she gives a shy smile.

“Yeah, all but my gran.” He laughs.

“Mine too, always called me John Hamish. That’s grandmothers for you, I suppose.”

Her tiny, pale hands ply at the edge of the sheet.

“I guess.”

“How have you been, Lori?” he asks gently, catching her coffee-coloured eyes with his navy ones.

“Alright, I guess.”

“Things been hard lately, at school...at home?” A roll of her eyes.

“Everything’s fine.” she huffs, but her fingers twist in her long, auburn hair.

“Yeah,” he nods, “but it’s not, not really, is it?”

“What kind of a doctor are you?” she asks, suspicious.

“Just one that knows how it feels when things aren’t easy.” he says, now praying silently that whatever he felt, or Saw, was accurate. He plunges ahead.

“It’s not enough anymore, is it? You just want to feel some relief, but it’s just not enough.”

She seems to forget the petulant teen act and stares him straight in the face.

“Yeah,” she agrees, almost breathlessly. And he knows he’s right.

“How long have you been...?”

“About three years, I guess.” And John feels, twinned with his own, the favour of Earth. Her favour is strong, unchecked by any training, without direction or instruction. So dangerous for an emotionally sensitive young girl.

“When did you start?” he asks, careful, kind.

“I was at school. An older boy.” She drops to a whisper. “He...raped me. My parents took me home, took me out of school. We just,” she shakes her head sadly, “act like it never happened.”

His heart begins to break.

“I’m so sorry that happened to you.” She’s studying him, alert for any sign of the inevitable betrayal, his denial. She knows it is always what happens next. The blame.

John hears, without hearing, her parents voices. _Why were you alone with him? You’re lucky you didn’t get in more trouble. What did you expect?_

He asks, “Want to show me?” as though it’s the most normal thing in the world.

She pulls her shirtsleeves up to her shoulder. Everything to the hem is a mass of scar and scab and fresh wound. She doesn’t catch John’s slight tremble, as the image matches exactly what he Saw.

He stays, her asks her to tell the story of each incision. She does, and eventually throws aside the sheet to lift her shirt and shows him the sliced skin all along her abdomen. The cuts along her thighs are deep and inflamed. Talking, chatting really, with a forced conversationality he doesn’t truly feel, he begins to dress a few of her deeper wounds. She begins to trust him, and in less than an hour she’s agreed to talk to a counselor.

*

In the locker room, after his shower, John hyperventilates. He’s alone, is brought to his knees by his anxiety. He can’t begin to control the fear ripping through him. Seers are rare, but everyone knows they exist. He’s even known one. And she, like so many others, went missing.

He felt this way as a boy, terribly afraid and as though the world was spinning out of control.

The next morning, he joins the army. He’s been running his whole life. He tells himself that now, he must never stop.

*

A tall, dark-haired teenager, not quite a man, but no longer a child, peers at the syringe that threatens to slip from his hands. He knows how dangerous this drug is, but he’d do anything, anything, anything at all to stop the press of his thoughts, to stop the screaming of his mind. His favours overwhelm him, drown him in possibility until he’s trembling and paralyzed, afraid to dream for his dreams terrify him, horrified to stay awake because his waking life seems to be a nightmare.


End file.
